


Each In Their Own Way

by DixieDale



Category: Hogan's Heroes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-08
Updated: 2019-06-08
Packaged: 2020-04-22 23:07:45
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,923
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19138687
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DixieDale/pseuds/DixieDale
Summary: Not everyone led a battle, bugles sounding and trumpets blaring, confident that glory and medals were their rightful due.  Some served in the shadows, in the fear-drenched darkness, feeling Death's fetid breath on their necks even as they fought to put a confident smile on their face.  But each served, each did their part, each in their own way.Four vignettes.





	Each In Their Own Way

  
**I.**   **The Circle**

She arrived, complaining loudly, swinging her heavy purse at the doorman when he tried to assist her.

"Take your hands away, you fool!" she snapped irritably.

The man at the desk sighed in resignation. Yes, he knew her; Frau Linkmeyer, the bane of his existence. Well, at least for today. He had many banes to his existence; it was just that they varied day by day, guest by guest.

A crisp nod of that greying head, an even crisper, "you have my accommodations ready, I hope. It was an utterly miserable trip! I am absolutely shaken to pieces with the conditions of the road, and that fool of a driver my brother assigned to me managed to hit every bump he could find!"

"Yes, of course, Frau Linkmeyer. Just as requested, your usual suite."

Frau Linkmeyer, sister to General Burkhalter, was nothing if not predictable. The regular meeting of the local sewing circle was tomorrow, (though why she insisted on being a part of THIS one and not one closer to her home, he did not know and dared not to ask), and as usual she arrived the day before, always staying at his hotel. Always taking the same suite, voicing the same complaints, and now he waited for the usual followup and he was not disappointed.

"And my nerves are simply frayed, I tell you. I was going to go to the dining room for a meal but I simply cannot bear listening to all the fools you probably have staying here."

In the beginning when she'd started coming, he'd tried reassuring her of the quality of his guests. That had gotten him the sharp side of her tongue, and he hadn't repeated that experiment. Then, on the occasion when there had BEEN no other guests in the dining room, he'd offered that, thinking she'd be pleased. Needless to say, THAT brought a suspicious look and a loud wondering, "and what have the others discovered about your kitchen that I have not, sir? Just how am I to trust a dining room where no one chooses to dine?"

Now, he just gave her the reassurance he'd finally come up with, one that seemed to satisfy the sturdy woman as much as anything was likely to.

"Most understandable, Frau Linkmeyer. Perhaps I could have a light sampling of the best from our kitchen. Oh, nothing to overload your delicate system, not for a lady such as yourself, but just a little something? With perhaps some beer or schnapps to calm your frayed nerves?"

She gave her usual petulant frown, then a reluctant nod. "Very well. That does sound as if it's the best you have to offer here," looking around disdainfully. "In two hours time; I wish to repose myself first. And nothing elaborate, a little snack only. A few sandwiches, perhaps a few small salads to the side, maybe a taste of something sweet. And beer. Or maybe schnapps. Oh, just bring both and I will decide later! And keep the noise down! I don't want to hear a lot of comings and goings and idle talk in the hallways! I tell you, my nerves simply will not handle it!"

The desk clerk, also the owner, wished the times were different, wished she was NOT the sister of a general; it would have been so nice to have been able to politely suggest she find someplace more to her liking. Reason, and the desire to continue living, prevailed and he forced a bland smile to his face as he snapped his fingers for the aging bellman to escort the guest to her quarters. The bellman knew the frau as well as he did himself, and would pass the word, 'stay off the third floor til the old battleax checked out, unless specifically called for'. He himself made sure to put as few people in that area as possible, certainly no one who might cause a disturbance, "perhaps by sneezing or something!" he told the empty air sarcastically.

He muttered to himself, "a light sampling! The woman eats enough for any three people when she is having a 'little something'!" Still, he turned and walked to the kitchen to give the order, "and do not skimp if you do not want her to bite your head off!"

Next a businessman arrived, then an elderly couple, then a very attractive but slightly aloof young woman in a severe suit and hat. The young woman had been here before on occasion, on her way carrying papers from her job to some unknown but probably important personage. She brooked no familiarity, but was invariably polite and courteous, asking nothing of him or his hotel but a quiet room to rest before she continued her journey.

She'd explained once, with an apologetic air, "not that I should need that, of course, but I suffer slightly from travel sickness, and even a relatively short journey can become troublesome." Well, she caused no difficulties, was agreeable, and the most she'd ever requested, other than her bill, was a small pot of mint tea, taken at a small table to the side of the dining room.

Then came the grande dame, the old woman, still stiffly upright but with all the regal demeanor of a queen. But, unlike Frau Linkmeyer, Frau Klosterman was gracious, and it was obvious she must have been a great beauty in her youth, for time had not been able to erase that. Her fur coat was worn, had seen better days, yes, but had probably once cost more than his hotel had cost.

He'd answered her smile with a genuine one of his own. "Frau Klosterman, it is a delight to see you again. Your room is ready, all is as you like it." No one in the lobby needed to know that included a decanter of brandy and a saucy novel; that was a private thing between him and the elderly woman, just as his wistful imaginings that she might have visited his hotel when she was a much younger woman was a private thing. {"Of course, I would have been perhaps too young to appreciate her. Still, one can have one's dreams."}

And perhaps he was not the only one with a few fond imaginings, for his guest reached out her hand and gently patted his, "ah, Rudolph, time is a cruel thing, but dreams endure." And on that cryptic note, she glided up the stairs to her room.

  
A discreet knock, barely able to be heard, at the door to the suite had Frau Linkmeyer pulling it open with a fierce frown, just in case. The young woman had made her way over twenty minutes ago, so now it was the elderly Frau Klosterman who entered, Linkmeyer closing and locking the door behind her.

"Gertruda, please tell me there is vodka! Or if not vodka, then schnapps! This wig feels like a vise!" The voice was kept quite low, but still extremely dramatic in the delivery.

Gertrude Linkmeyer chuckled as she let her eyes drift over the 'older' woman, head to toe and back again. "Marya, I do NOT know how you do it! You are still beautiful, but no one would recognize you if they did not know what to look for!"

Hilda hurried forward with a glass of clear liquid, "it is schnapps, I'm afraid, not vodka, Marya. It would cause too much attention for our good Frau Linkmeyer to switch her drink of choice now."

Marya sighed and took the glass with alacrity, "true. Beggars cannot be choosers, my dear Hilda. Oh, and before we start, I must tell you. You are now a godmother. A beautiful baby girl, so I am told, and mother and child send you their warmest love and best wishes, along with stern warnings to be very careful and instructions to come to them safely when this is all over."

Hilda beamed, "I had hoped she would find a way to send me word! Thank you, Marya!"

Gertrude looked from one to the other, but didn't ask any questions. These days, sometimes the less you knew, the less danger there was to those around you. Still, there was work to be done.

"So, this is what I have heard . . . " and the general's sister proceeded to lay out what her brother had told her of the new offensive. "And General Wolfschmitz is to be carrying the details of the OTHER part of the pincer movement. He will be passing through Gochsheim in five days, staying at the mayor's residence. He will be carrying a black briefcase, but the plans will be in his suitcase, inside a leather bound copy of 'Mein Kampf'. It is considered safer there. They must be photographed, not stolen, if they are to be of any use."

Hilda was taking notes in her own brand of shorthand, counting on her excellent memory to fill in the more incriminating parts. If anyone actually managed to decipher her notes, it would only look as if she was perhaps considering a small vacation and stopping in the village of Gochsheim in the process.

Marya was looking thoughtful, "so, perhaps a pincer movement of our own. I can distract the dear General Wolfschmitz, while certain others photograph the plans. Yes, it could work."

They broached the sandwiches and salads and drink, once again affirming the hotelier's opinion of Frau Linkmeyer's prodigious appetite, discussing what had to be discussed.

Finally, Hilda slipped away, to don her hat and coat and make her way down, giving her polite thanks to the man at the desk, paying him for the half-fare he always charged for her short stay. Her car headed in the direction of Berlin; it would only be later that she would change course, make her way back to Hammelburg and her tiny flat, and on the morrow, back to her desk at Stalag 13. It would not be difficult to get the information to Hogan; after all, he had so quickly, so thoroughly 'trained' her to do just that. She repressed a shiver of feeling, many emotions well mixed. Hogan would have been shocked, to say the least, to find that none of those emotions were very complimentary to him personally

Marya looked at the closing door, a tiny frown of concern on her face.

"Do not worry so. She is the best suited for the job, you know. And she has been warned. Besides, she is not susceptible to the blandishments, though she will act as if she is," Linkmeyer assured her. The secretary had made no secret of the cold chill she felt at Hogan's closeness, his touch. She wasn't sure if Hilda didn't like men, at least sexually, or preferred women, perhaps. The young woman was the most engaging flirt, was really quite accomplished at it, but sometimes she had the feeling that Hilda had no leanings in either direction, as if the wand of desire had never touched her in the first place.

Marya nodded, but only in partial agreement. "I hope you are right, Gertruda. But there is more than one danger, and more than one manner of seduction. I worry about her." She got a rueful look on her face, "of course, I worry about all of us, but that does us little good, does it?"

Once again in character, the lovely woman slipped out into the empty hallway, returned to her own room and made herself comfortable in the armchair. One or two tiny sips of brandy, the rest of the glass poured, regretfully, down the sink in the attached lavatory, a fast perusal of the novel, and she leaned back to think through her plans. {"Gochsheim. What do I know about Gochsheim?"}

She would leave in the morning, headed in that general direction, but making a stop or two, changing her persona a time or two as well. Soon, hopefully, she would have another German General wound around her capable little finger. Maybe, if she was lucky, she just might find a way to rid Hitler of yet another one of his so pesky subordinates. Perhaps not, but if not this one, there would be another one down the road. She would make sure of that.

Gertrude Linkmeyer gathered the remains of the 'snack', just soiled dishes now, and sat them outside the door. Preparing for bed, she pulled out a juicy novel from her voluminous purse and poured herself another small glass of schnapps. Tomorrow she would head home, and await whatever came next. For now, she was satisfied.

She might not be young and pretty like Hilda. She certainly wasn't beautiful, like Marya, never had been. But she was still useful and cunning and capable of doing important things. And when her beloved Otto returned from wherever the blasted man had gotten himself, {"missing on the Russian Front, my Aunt Tilda! He's half Russian himself; most likely burrowed in with some of his cousins!"} she would be able to hold her head up high, knowing she had done herself, her country, proud. HER country, her Germany, not the Germany that bastard in Berlin had created.

 

**II.  In The Midst Of The Storm, A Voice Shall Comfort Me**

It was a wild night of one storm after another, complete with episodes of harsh lightning and pounding thunder and incessant rain coming down in torrents, and the men in Barracks 2 were stiff with tension. Well, the whole camp was, to some extent, but the men of Barracks 2 knew more, knew about the two tunnels that were less than stable after those last rains, knew about the antenna disguised as a flag pole, and so, so much more. All were things that the current situation could expose, and them right along with it.

Of course, having just successfully pulled off another of their derring-do missions, hopefully without anyone spotting them and reporting that fact to the Gestapo, that didn't reduce the tension any; the thought of Hochstetter and his goons storming through the gates just wasn't conducive to a relaxing evening.

They were still trying to get rid of the chills from that mission. Top priority, London had said, never mind the conditions tonight! Even Kinch and Olsen had been out and about, rain, hail, thunder and lightning all taking turns at scaring the shit out of them. They'd each taken their bruises from various slips and falls, dashing through the forest. Each tried to relax their muscles now, tried to relax their taut minds, knowing that the dual assault was doing no one any good.

The tension was palpable, enough LeBeau thought he just might scream from the feeling of the walls closing in, his narrow bunk feeling like an invisible coffin binding him. Carter wasn't far behind, the air seeming far too thin, and he knew doggone well his teeth were chattering.

He would have liked to have perched on the outside of Newkirk's bunk, he felt safer there, but Hogan sometimes got a little peeved when he did that. Still, that would have calmed him down, a whole lot. He knew his friend could feel his shudders through the wooden frame; after all, he could always feel Peter's when Peter was having one of his really bad nights. It was a thing they shared, companionable in one respect, but in another, just increasing the unspoken, and usually unsatisfied need for greater closeness to hold the night terrors back.

Then, from a top bunk, the one directly over Carter, a soft voice began to gently fill the void.

'Oh, the summer time has come

And the trees are sweetly blooming,

And the wild mountain thyme

Grows around the blooming heather

Will you go, laddie, go?

  
And we'll all go together

To pull wild mountain thyme

All around the blooming heather,

Will you go, laddie, go?'

Heads turned toward the sound. Yes, it was Newkirk's voice, but the accent was Scots, pure and simple and needing no accompaniment in its richness. No one said a word, but when the full song was over, Kinch remarked on the last verse.

"I'd heard that last piece a little different. I think it was 'If my true love won't come, I will surely find another' rather than the way you sang it.  You know, that 'I'll surely seek no other'."

Newkirk gave a low chuckle. "Yes, well, the one who taught it to me admitted that, but said she liked it better this way. Said it just didn't seem right otherwise."

Hogan, now standing at the door, drawn by the music, commented tersely, "your protegee, I presume."

Newkirk knew full well better than to answer THAT honestly, and gave a very believable, very offhand, "no, twas Maudie w'at taught me that one, and more than a few others of the like. Said 'er Jamie 'ad a true fondness for the song, 'im being Scots and all, and I would 'ear 'er singing it sometimes at the pub after closing time. Great one for a song, auld Maude."

He smiled in the darkness, though, remembering the rainy afternoons by the fire, before the pub opened for the evening, when Caeide would take her guitar and sing, and he and Maude and Marisol would sit and share a dram and listen and sometimes join in.

LeBeau asked eagerly, "are there others, Pierre?" The song, Newkirk's rich voice seemed to push the shadows back to where they weren't seeming quite so eager to reach out and grab him.

"Yeah, Peter. Can you do more?" Carter asked, and Olsen and Kinch joined in. Even Hogan gave a murmur of approval, now that the harmless origin of the song had been made clear.

"Well, maybe." He sang another two, making sure neither were ones he'd mentioned in connection with the girl he'd mentored that year in London. Not that he hadn't heard them from her, of course, but just ones he'd never mentioned in that connection, and being traditional English folk songs could easily have come from elsewhere. There was the old 'Greensleeves', which most of them had at least heard before, that being followed by 'Scarborough Fair'.

He let the last song trail off into nothingness, remembering the last time he'd sung that, in duet first with Caeide, then with Maude and Marisol joining in, turning it into a weaving and overlapping thing of beauty. He blinked away the moisture, but couldn't find it within him to start another one.

In the silence that followed, Kinch layered in 'Follow The Drinking Gourd" and 'Michael, Row The Boat Ashore.' He rarely joined in any of the singing, but he had a fine voice, and they knew they'd ask him for another contribution, if not then, then some other time.

Olsen admitted, "I can't sing, I really can't. But I remember this story my grandmother used to tell," and he rolled out a tale of a clumsy lad who kept making a mess of things, dropping things and falling over things and saying the wrong thing at the wrong time, but each time it all turned out to be something lucky happening because of his accidents. And since it was a quick paced rhyming story, it was ALMOST like being a song, at least that's what Carter had proclaimed at the end.

"Not exactly a song, but sort of, anyway. Well, if you can have a sort of song, and I guess you can, cause that's sure what it sounded like. If you know what I mean?"

They had all chuckled at that, the story and the comment, thinking the boy in the story sounded a lot like Carter.

LeBeau added in a short and merry song about the ladies of Lorraine, which everyone liked, but when Carter started in on, of all things, a version of 'Bonnie Charlie', in an appallingly out-of-place midwestern voice, mangling the words and flattening all the lilting notes along with that, Newkirk just couldn't handle it.

"Andrew, please!" he protested. "I can understand you not knowing 'ow to say the words, or even knowing the right words, but you aint even 'itting 'alf the right notes!"

"So alright, YOU do it!" Carter retorted, never letting on that that had been his intention all along. After all, he knew all kinds of songs that he COULD sing pretty good, from both sides of his family. But that wouldn't have gotten Peter singing again, and he really wanted him to. Things just seemed BETTER when Peter was singing (or talking, or just smiling at him, or just BEING there!).

And the Scottish lament rang out, the way it was supposed to be sung, at least according to one red haired Brat.

'Bonnie Charlie's noo awa',

Safely ower the friendly main; 

Mony a heart will break in twa', 

Should he ne'er coom back again.

  


W'al ye no coom back again?

W'al ye no coom back again?

Better lo'ed ye canna be,

W'al ye no coom back again?'

Andrew grinned into the darkness. He could listen to Peter sing for hours, but it was rare the Englishman allowed himself to be drawn into doing that. And Peter, the consumate Englishman, doing a traditional Scottish song, in a true Scot's accent? Priceless! {"Yeah, Maudie. Right, Peter!"}

The song ended, and somewhere in the darkness and the silence, they realized the thunder and lightning had passed over, and even the rain had slowed to a gentle pattering on the roof overhead.

Sighing deeply, they each settled down in the darkness to sleep til dawn.

 

**III.  "I'll Smile When I Have Something To Smile About."**

"Smile? I will put a smile on my face when you show me something to smile about," he grumped. Well, that was Oscar Schnitzer for you; anyone would tell you that. There were few who ever saw a smile, or anything even resembling a smile on his dour face.

  
Of course, Schnitzer had smiled (if only to himself) when he'd found Sergeant Carter in the woods, seemingly playing hopscotch with a rabbit. The most amusing part had been that the young man had just beamed in shared pleasure upon being discovered, not in the least embarrassed to be found at such games.

"Isn't she pretty, Oscar? So soft and brown, with those pink insides to her ears?"

Oscar had just grumped, "ya, the rabbit is very pretty, but what would you have done if I were a soldier, Carter? You must pay better attention!", getting a sheepish acknowledgement in return, though somewhat dampened by the admiring and fond looks Carter was still giving that rabbit.

  
And, he had smiled, after the fact, when he had stopped to give Corporal Langenscheidt a lift from the forest road back to camp. For seemingly such a simple, uncomplicated fellow, Langenscheidt was anything but uncomplicated. A soldier, yes, and probably not overly good at the job, considering he'd landed at Stalag 13. But also a dreamer of dreams, a teller of wonderful stories that engaged the mind and captured the heart and sometimes terrified the soul. And, it would seem, a lover, for Oscar had discovered the man was meeting a pretty girl in the forest. That Oscar didn't recognize the girl, that was unusual, of course, since he thought he knew everyone in a fifty mile range. Still, the sight of the corporal hastening down the forest path, the young woman stepping out from among the trees to be greeted by a shy kiss to the cheek, then them disappearing into the shadows arm and arm? Yes, that made him smile. So sue him for being a romantic!

  
And he had smiled, this time one of deep satisfaction, each time he delivered vital parts to the camp, to be passed into the hands of LeBeau or one of the others.

  
And he smiled, in gratification, when he made one more successful delivery of one more 'traveler' making use of Hogan's little 'Travelers' Aid Society'.

  
And, tonight, while feeding Fritzi and Lulu and Dodie and all the others, he smiled, remembering those five wiggling puppies laying up so close to Surrie, her nuzzling them over one by one, a proud and loving expression on her face. Yes, now THAT was something to smile about too.

 

**IV.  Gather Your Courage Around You and Carry On**

He had handled the confrontation with Major Hochstetter with his usual combination of aloof superiority and a genial show of false but polite respect. It was a tactic that usually worked, at least well enough to keep the small man at bay. Still, that threat to go directly to the head of the Gestapo in Berlin wasn't one he was going to discount. His own credit was good in Berlin, at least at the moment, but that rested on the whim of their decidedly unstable leader, of course.

Only after Hochstetter had left did General Burkhalter let himself relax enough to toss back a glass of schnapps. "Mueller," he called, "is there anything of extreme urgency? If not, I believe I will leave. I must once again try and persuade my sister to not be such a homebody. There is a new officer just arrived who I would like her to meet; I believe he has great husband potential, if she would just stop bemoaning her blasted Otto!"

Mueller nodded sympathetically. Having met Frau Linkmeyer on several occasions, he could readily understand the General's wanting to see her married and out of their mother's household. After all, the General bore the responsibility and expense for both his own AND his mother's household, and the cost could not have been small, not the way everyone in those households ate! As for himself, he was sincerely grateful that he was far too low in rank to be in the running for the hand of the 'fair Gertrude'. Of course, he was also married, but he wasn't sure that little fact would have been enough to throw his boss off the track otherwise.

"Is she still insisting he is not dead, only missing?" he asked.

Burkhalter snorted in disgust. "Yes. And she will not listen when I explain that 'missing on the Russian Front' means 'dead'. She is a very determined woman, my sister."

Mueller could not disagree with that; from what he had seen, determined was the very least of it.

  
A weary Albert Burkhalter made his way in through the side door of his family home and up the stairs. His mother's rooms were on the first level, at the back, but she would be taking her usual nap at this time of day. Second level, and he cast reluctant eyes on the next flight of stairs before lumbering up them, one slow step at a time.

Pausing to get his breath, he looked at the pictures on the wall of the carpeted hallway. The so-called 'important' ones were downstairs, but the ones he truly cared about were up here. The painting of the cottage where they used to spend their summers as children - the line sketch of his grandmother - the photographs and drawings of him and his sister as children, six years old, then ten, then fourteen. He smiled at the one of himself, probably nine or so, laying in a green meadow with his head resting in the lap of his ever-so-serious younger sister. If he remembered correctly, he was telling her his tale of woe over his latest mishap riding their grandfather's ancient charger. She had her hand on his hair, as if she was smoothing away the bruises with her mere touch, and indeed, he remembered it being that way.

He made his way down the hall, and gently rapped at the far door. "Gertruda?"

"A moment, Albert," came the quick reply, and his sister opened the door and ushered him in to his usual spot on the couch.

"Come, sit. I will get you a glass of schnapps. Has it been a bad day? You look as if it might have been," she fussed. Contrary to the visibly impatient air she took with him in public, here she was gentle solicitude, just as she always had been.

Funny, Berta never fussed over him this way, though as his wife you would have thought she would have. No, Berta had always said one of the things she admired most about him was that he was so strong, that he didn't have all those annoying insecurities that she found so distasteful in a man. She had no patience for what she would have considered weakness, certainly would not have pandered to it, sought to give comfort. Her greatest pride was his strength; well, and his position as General. She found the latter most gratifying.

No, to Berta he showed only the side she expected. Come to think of it, the same side he showed his fellow officers.

His mother was much the same as Berta, not expecting or tolerating any softness, any weakness from him; he was supposed to be strong, for the family, but most importantly, for her. She had always been quite needy and his father had catered to her totally, expecting their son to do the same. Anything less than firm resolve and unshakable self-confidence would have totally unacceptable from a son destined for the military. Nothing else would have been allowed, not from a father expecting solid strength and resolve and dedication to duty, not from a mother who had, from childhood, learned to expect but not give support.

Only here did he let anything else show. Only with Gertruda, the little sister who had always been there with a willing shoulder. Oh, she made a good show in public, hiding her softer feelings, but somehow he never doubted she at least HAD those softer feelings.

He watched as she poured him a drink, sat beside him and waited til he took the first sip, then gently encouraged him, "so, tell me. What has you so upset?"

And he told her of Hochstetter, getting her disgusted snort of agreement at his description of the man and his obsession with proving Colonel Hogan was indeed Papa Bear.

"That man! So annoying! He's probably right, of course, about Hogan," getting a choked gasp from her brother. He agreed, but had never said it out loud! Leave it to Gertruda!

"Still, in a game of wits, I'd bet my last coin on Hogan over Hochstetter any day. Of course, the major has all those men with guns, and that can outweigh wits and charm if it comes to that. You must try and see that it does NOT come to that, Albert. Hogan is simply too valuable."

Burkhalter looked at her askance. "Gertruda, you are not developing a, well, a liking for Hogan, are you? Of a romantic nature?" She had, after all, been a widow for over three years now.

Of all the improbable, frightening things, Gertruda falling for the rascally Hogan, that was pretty high up there on the scale. He remembered his sister when she had fallen for the ill-fated Otto; she met him, had fallen madly in love, and had been single-minded in her determination to bed and wed him. Her intensity had actually frightened Burkhalter - him and everyone around at the time. But at least that hadn't been a total misalliance. It had not been a brilliant match, not for a young woman of their family's stature, but it had not been a jaw-droppingly bad one either. If she now had turned that same intensity toward the Allied officer . . .

But no, that was a ridiculous thought! Even Gertruda would see that was an impossibility, Hogan's penchant for the young and beautiful not being the least of the impediments! Not that Gertruda being neither young nor beautiful would prevent Hogan from using her, if he got the opportunity. Burkhalter just wasn't sure his sister, still a woman after all, would be able to withstand the blandishments Hogan could pour out at a moment's notice. He cautiously expressed his concerns.

She snorted in wry amusement. "Albert, he is handsome, he is witty, he is charming. And, in his own way, just as much of a devious and poisonous snake as Hochstetter, possibly even more so. It is just that, for the moment, he is the snake we need to be supporting. That doesn't mean we need to extend our wrist to be bitten, of course."

Burkhalter sighed deeply, nodding in reluctant agreement. At her gentle urging, he stretched out, his balding head in her lap, her hand gently stroking his remaining hair, as she had from when they were small children.

"So, you are worried about this trip to Berlin?" she asked knowingly.

There was silence, then he swallowed deeply and said what he would never have said to anyone else.

"I am frightened, Gertruda. What if I make a mistake, what if they see too much? One tiny mistake, that is all it would take. And it would not be only me to pay the price, but you and Berta and mother and all the rest."

Her hand paused, then resumed the gentle stroking. "I am frightened, too, brother, every time I make a move on the chessboard, knowing what is at stake. And do not let that foolish Berta try to tell you a man should not be frightened; that is only one of the reasons your wife must never find out what it is we are doing. It is very well to be frightened, Albert. Only a fool would not be. But you and I, we can embrace the fear and then rise above it, because we are the ones who chose to enter the game, to play the parts we play. We knew at the beginning that we would quite likely not survive to write our memoirs, yes?"

He looked up at her, "you always talk as if there is a future, about when Otto returns." For once he didn't scoff at her determined faith in her absent husband.

She shrugged and gave him a sad smile. "A small dream to keep me warm, Albert. And when I am frightened at what I am doing, I think on Otto, my kind and funny Otto, and I gather my courage around me and I carry on."

They were silent for a long while, then he quietly asked, "your sewing circle went well?" For that was how he always referred to that odd little group, not the one she openly belonged to a few towns over, but the 'unofficial' one she met with in secret, even though he had no real knowledge of who, or even how many made up that little 'circle'. Gertrude had thought it best that way, and Albert could only agree. He just knew they were quite efficient, that little group who received the information he was able to provide. Odd that Gertrude had been the one to enter the game first, really.

"Yes. The Ladies Circle is quite expert, you know. A stitch here, a stitch there, a little snack, a little drink, a few more stitches, and eventually it all comes together nicely. Now, rest, Albert, nap if you can; I have no place to be, and mother will be sleeping for another hour at least."

And he did, and when he awoke, he did as she suggested, gathered his courage around him and carried on. They might not survive this war, but perhaps, with their help, their country, their Germany just might.

**Author's Note:**

> Oh, the summer time has come  
> And the trees are sweetly blooming,  
> And the wild mountain thyme  
> Grows around the blooming heather  
> Will you go, laddie, go?
> 
> (Chorus)  
> And we'll all go together  
> To pull wild mountain thyme  
> All around the blooming heather,  
> Will you go, laddie, go?
> 
> I will build my love a fountain  
> By yon clear crystal stream.  
> And my love will be the fairest  
> That the summer sun has seen.  
> Will you go, laddie, go?
> 
> I will build my love a bower  
> By yon clear crystal fountain.  
> And on it I shall plant  
> All the flowers of the mountain.  
> Will you go, laddie, go?
> 
> And if my true love won't come,  
> I will surely seek no other,  
> To pull wild mountain thyme  
> All around the blooming heather.  
> Will you go, laddie, go?  
> Wild Mountain Thyme, Traditional Scottish Folksong (Variation)


End file.
